Chapter 3 - THE GALA AT THE DRAKE
The Gold Coast Room of the Drake Hotel was a masterclass in gilded excess. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, buttery light over hundred-dollar-a-plate tables, expensive gowns, and the low, self-satisfied hum of Chicago’s financial elite.
Miriam moved through the crowd with the practiced grace of a seasoned professional. Her black uniform tunic was crisp, her tray balanced effortlessly on her left palm, her eyes scanning the room with the clinical detachment of an archivist reviewing damaged manuscripts.
She spotted Thomas Aldren near the dais, flanked by two security consultants who looked like retired federal agents. He was smiling, shaking hands, playing the role of the unflappable titan of industry. But his eyes were restless, darting across the room every thirty seconds.
And sitting at a corner table near the tall arched windows, half-hidden behind a towering floral centerpiece, was Clara.
She wore a simple dark velvet dress, her dark braids neatly pinned back. She wasn't eating. She was watching the room with that same comprehensive intensity Miriam had witnessed a week ago.
Miriam navigated past a cluster of laughing bankers, pausing near Clara’s table to adjust a water goblet. She didn't look down. Her fingers, resting against the edge of the linen tablecloth, flicked through a rapid sequence of sign language.
Are you okay?
Clara didn't flinch. Her small fingers moved in response against her lap, hidden from the rest of the room.
He's here. Carew. Table three.
Miriam kept her face smooth, pouring water into an executive's glass. Where is he looking?
At the briefcase.
Miriam’s gaze drifted casually toward table three. Philip Carew was seated between two prominent city council members, laughing heartily at a joke. But his left hand rested flat on a sleek leather briefcase sitting on the empty chair beside him. A briefcase that bore the distinct silver clasp of Westbrook Capital’s secure transport locks.
Aldren hadn't just suspected a data leak; he had set a trap. He had left a decoy briefcase containing restricted merger documents right where Carew could access it under the cover of a crowded charity auction.
And Carew was taking the bait.
As the auctioneer took the stage to announce the evening's primary benefactor, the lights in the grand ballroom dipped slightly. The room’s attention shifted toward the podium.
Carew shifted in his seat. His fingers tapped a rapid rhythm against the table. He glanced left, then right. No one was watching him. The security consultants flanking Aldren were momentarily distracted by a commotion near the entrance.
Carew unlatched the briefcase.
He pulled out a slim, matte-black hardware token—a mobile satellite relay device—and wedged it into the document sleeve. The green diagnostic LED on the token flashed once, twice, three times.
Data transfer in progress.
Miriam felt a cold spike of adrenaline. She couldn't walk over there. She couldn't make a scene without blowing Westbrook’s entire operation.
She looked toward Clara.
The nine-year-old was already looking at her, her dark eyes sharp, intelligent, and completely devoid of fear. Clara raised her hand casually, pretending to reach for a bread roll, and flicked her wrist in a sharp, definitive gesture.
May you like
Now.
Miriam didn't hesitate. She deliberately tilted her tray, sending three crystal champagne flutes crashing down onto the hardwood floor with a deafening, shattering explosion of glass.
